


The Talented Mr Baggins

by orphan_account



Category: Lord of the Rings - Tolkien, Talented Mr Ripley (1999), Talented Mr Ripley - Highsmith
Genre: 10000-30000 words, Angst, Crossover, F/M, Hobbits, Jealousy, M/M, Multi, Murder, Threesome, Threesome - F/M/M, Unrequited Love, over 10000 words
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-04-08
Updated: 2008-04-08
Packaged: 2017-10-08 01:36:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/71354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The war is over. Why doesn't it feel like it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Talented Mr Baggins

**Author's Note:**

> Total angstfest, guys. I'm not even kidding.
> 
> It's not exactly a crossover, rather it's just taking some of the plot, scenes and influences from Patricia Highsmith's 'The Talented Mr Ripley' and also the Anthony Minghella film adaptation and setting them in the period where Frodo lived with Sam and Rosie after the war. Frodo "plays" Ripley in this scenario. There will be a murder. Whether it's seen through to the end or not is a thing you'll have to find out for yourself.
> 
> This was also considerably influenced, though you may not be able to tell, by the _Pretty Good Year_ stories of Mary Borsellino.
> 
> Extra warning: I am doing poor Freddie Bolger no favours here.

_~Bag End, 1421~_

  
Frodo sat in the darkness of the bedchamber. The walls were round, hobbity, reassuring, but Frodo didn't see any of it. He sat quietly, deep in thought, eyes solemn and empty.

There was a light, a shaft of it, from a round window up high. It fell on half of Frodo's face.

_If I could just go back... If I could rub everything out... starting with myself._

_Starting with accepting my inheritance._

_~Bag End, 1418~_

  
Neither said anything for a minute. Gandalf's eyes were fixed on him with a pathetic, hungry expression. What on earth could he say? Frodo was sorry he had admitted to having the bloody ring. 'How old is Bilbo nowadays, anyway?' he asked, although he knew the answer.

'Around 128, I believe.'

And I am 50, Frodo thought. Bilbo was probably having the time of his life over there. Eating Elven food all day, living in a beautiful Elven city, plenty of forests and hills to wander around in. Why should he want to go around destroying Rings? Bilbo's face was becoming clearer in his memory: the big smile, greying hair with crisp waves in it, a happy-go-lucky face. Bilbo was lucky; he had done his adventuring and gotten his reward. What was Frodo himself doing at fifty? Living from week to week. Hardly any money left. Dodging Sackville-Bagginses and other nosy relatives every day of his life. He had a talent for writing. Why in hell didn't they pay him for it, somewhere? Frodo realized that all his muscles had tensed, that the daisy he'd been turning around in his fingers was crumbling, pieces fluttered on his trousers. He was bored, Shire-damned bloody bored, bored, bored! He wanted to be back in his study, by himself.

Frodo took a gulp of his tea. 'I'd be very glad to take the Ring back to Bilbo, if you can find me a guide,' he said quickly. 'I suppose the Elves will take care of it after that.'

_~Lothlórien, 1419~_

  
'"See Lothlórien and die," isn't that what they say?' Sam said cheerfully into the silence, as he turned to Frodo.

There must have been something odd in Frodo's look, because the smile fell from Sam's lips in an instant. Frodo felt caught, blinked in sudden panic, but this was his Sam. His tension slowly receded. It was his Sam, Sam could see him - like this. He let go of the Ring he'd been unconsciously grasping in his fist, the sharp edges cutting small scars into his palm. The thought that Sam would not think any different of him no matter what - it made him feel free, even jubilant, though the situation made the sudden joy seem absurd. He shivered, cool sweat on his brow. 'Or is it Mordor? You do something and die, don't you? Well, Mordor is on the list, at least.' That had started out as a lame joke to break the frown on Sam's face, but he could see it had gone wrong quickly.

Sam's frown deepened, then he forced a smile; not very well acted, either. 'Well, we're in Lóthlorien now.'

Sam then busied himself by rummaging through his belongings. He produced a blanket, which he wrapped around Frodo silently, though the air was pleasant. They sat one next to each other, then, before the fire. The others were sleeping. Neither said anything.

Frodo looked at their feet one next to each other, pale and dark seeming not that different in the firelight. It amazed him for a moment - the similarity of their knees there one next to each other and the shapes of their feet. He thought of how two people could be - just copies, one of the other; one soul in two bodies.

He leaned against Sam, sharing the blanket, and drifted to sleep with Sam's arm around his back. While sadness lingered, like an annoying insect buzzing at the back of his brain, he could ignore it, force his mind to forget it, for now.

_~Rivendell, 1419~_

  
It was gone. Frodo grasped the chain at his neck, and the treasure hung there. The wrong treasure, the replacement. The token was an empty space, a white hollow where a black fullness belonged. Where a magnitude belonged, something that would fill him to the brim. It was gone.

And he wondered, was I always this empty before?

_~Bag End, 1420~_

_  
Indis hary' anta. The bride has a face._

Frodo looked out the window in his study, his nose almost touching the glass. Books and papers lay spread and forgotten on his desk. Down on the road, coming up the hill was a couple bearing packs and baskets from the market. They were healthy, golden in the fading light.

_Indis ná Losillë. The bride is Rose._

She laughed, and Sam grinned. Her arm slipped into his.

_Sina ná antanya. This is my face._

The outlines and the pale surface of his skin reflected faintly in the window pane, a ghost against the scenery.

_Sina ná anta Banwa._

Frodo touched the window, a whisper that hardly left a fingerprint.

_This is Sam's face._

***

'Are you sure you don't mind us staying in Bag End, Mr. Frodo?'

'No, Sam, not at all. I want you here, both of you.'

'If we're too noisy or you're wantin' to be alone we could spend a night or two at the Cottons or the Gaffer's hole...'

'He said he doesn't mind, Sam,' said Rosie, grinning. 'You'll make it sound like you don't want to live here!'

'I do! I mean, if... but..."

She flicked a napkin at him. Sam opened his mouth to protest, but she grinned, shushed him and flicked it again, hitting him square on the nose. This time he caught it, quicker than anyone might expect, and pulled her to him. She let him kiss her for a moment before pinching his ear.

'Ow!'

Frodo watched them laughing and wrestling on the lawn of the Bag End garden. He felt they'd all but forgotten he was there, sitting on the bench by the door with his pipe. He became acutely aware of how he must look in this green land that had suddenly become foreign to him; a pale wraith in the shadow of oak leaves, the breeze in his hair the only living thing about him. He didn't belong here.

He stood up to leave, to go inside, into the shadows. He thought of his manuscript, words bled on each page, black as death. Rosie glanced up from under Sam's shoulder. Frodo was caught. He smiled at her wanly. 'Are you cold, Frodo?' she asked.

'No...'

'I'll get you a blanket and a cup of tea.' She was already up, brushing grass blades and clovers off her dress. 'I make a wonderful cup of tea.' With that, she disappeared indoors.

Sam sat on the grass, leaning on one hand, and smiled up at him. He looked serene and happy, a flush on his cheeks - whether it was from the exercise or something else, Frodo couldn't tell. 'She does, you know, Mr. Frodo.'

'Everyone should have a talent,' Frodo answered and sat back down on the bench. He did feel the cool, but it suited his mood.

'You've more than one, though,' Sam said sincerely. 'Writing, for one. Isn't any way your Sam could get his head around words that way. Paintin', too, and singin'. That's three.' A thought lit up his eyes. 'Would you sing now? That is, if you've a mind to.'

'You want me to?' Sam nodded. 'All right...'

Frodo began, stopped to clear his throat, and then started again, his voice becoming clearer as he sang. He knew he had an eerie voice, lovely in its own way. The tune was not a hobbit one; Bilbo had brought it back from his travels, a long time ago.

The words... where did they come from? Frodo wasn't sure. Perhaps he had heard them in his sleep in Rivendell, or half-heartedly listening on some quiet evening in Bag End when Bilbo was in a sing-song mood. Perhaps he made them up. They weren't words he consciously remembered Bilbo singing. His voice fell into them, as if they were old and worn, as familiar to him as his own hands, whole or maimed.

_'I nyérëa sermo né  
nírissen ara i oron yallo, oron  
yallo meldorya linganë.  
'Fëarya quanta nyérëo, nyérëo  
ar nimbëo, an i macil, an i macil  
apacenya ehtanes._

_'By the mountain his station keeping  
Stood the mournful friend weeping, friend weeping,  
Close to his dear one to the last.  
'Through his heart, his sorrow sharing,  
sorrow sharing,  
All his bitter anguish bearing, anguish bearing,  
Now the sword of fate has passed.'_

He fell silent, shivering. He heard the gust of wind rustled through the leaves of the great old oak overshadowing the smial. It struck his skin and whipped his hair on his face. The world look grey. Was the sun suddenly gone?

Frodo jumped when he felt a touch on his arm, not having noticed Sam moving closer. 'Frodo,' he said softly, the "Mr." dropped unnoticed. 'You're makin' the hairs on the back of my neck stand up, singin' like that. It's just like when we were there... Horrible.'

Suddenly there was a touch on his other arm, and Frodo's head whipped around to look into the eyes of Rosie Gamgee, née Cotton. 'Are you cold, Frodo?'

'Come inside.'

_~Bad End, 1421~_

  
'Now you'll find out why Ms. Cotton always showed up for breakfast, Mr. Frodo,' joked Sam, a silly, enamored grin splitting his face. 'It wasn't love, it was my spice pots. She only married me to get to them.'

'Sam, what's "athelas"?' came Rosie's raised voice from the kitchen, right on cue. Frodo and Sam grinned at each other, then broke into laughter. It bubbled out of Frodo, and he felt as pure and free as he ever had.

The breakfast table was set in the great hall of Bag End. Frodo knew he could hardly even begin to finish his third of the breadrolls, eggs, pastries, milk, tea and whatnot that Rose and Sam had laid out. Perhaps the new little Gamgee would help with that - Rose had been eating healthily and massively ever since the good news had been confirmed.

Sam must have been thinking the same thing, for as Rosie reached for her third breadroll he said 'Is that for you or for the baby?'

'Hush and be done,' Rosie huffed. 'Would you deny it from your own unborn child?'

Sam looked shocked, a comic expression that made Frodo smile, although it was so Sam, so intricately familiar that it moved him to tenderness. Sam took all reprimands much too seriously. 'I didn't... I mean... Do you want the last egg?' He eyed the aforementioned item with forlorn resolution. 'Go on, take it!'

Rosie snatched the egg and put it on Frodo's plate. 'Now you're taking food out of your master's mouth? That one's Frodo's!'

'No, please, I've had enough...' Frodo tried.

'Nonsense. Eating well will get that pasty colour off your face,' Rosie said firmly.

Frodo laughed. No "Mr. Frodos" from her, nor any polite half-truths. 'Sam, your wife takes such good care of me I think I'll have to steal her from you.'

'You could steal this necklace instead,' Sam said gruffly.

'What necklace?' Frodo asked.

'Oh, that! No, you promised, Sam!'

Sam pulled a necklace out from under his shirt. It was just a chain with a large green stone hanging from it. 'The thing is making me itch, but Rosie made me promise never to take it off!'

Frodo walked around the table to bend over Sam and take the stone in his hand. It was quite a lovely thing, framed in gold and carved with the shapes of a rose and a sword. 'This is excellent work, Rose.'

'Frodo, I love you!' Rosie cried, delighted. 'See, Sam? I bought it for him for my birthday.'

'It's wonderful.'

'If I hadn't promised, I'd give it to you,' Sam said, still sore about being teased.

'Prat!' Rosie flicked a crumb at him, and turned back to Frodo. 'I found it in Bree when I went with my brothers to bargain for seeds. I pleaded and begged and threatened for three hours before the merchant would cut the price down so I could buy it.'

'In that case, Sam, you are lucky to have it. If I had a lady of my own, I would be sure to carry whatever present she chooses to give me, even if it wasn't this lovely.'

Sam looked crestfallen. 'Rosie, dear, I didn't mean...' He was so earnest that Frodo felt the sudden impulse to kiss him madly until the frown melted away and the stiffness in his neck loosened; until he kissed him back, and forgot everything else. But he just stood still, afraid his face and eyes would betray all his secrets at a glance, and so Rosie beat him to it.

A lady of my own, he had said. But Frodo had no intention to court any lady, let alone marry. He didn't want to be with any lass... except the one he was looking at now, the one sitting in her husband's lap, arms around broad shoulders that he wanted to hold onto himself.

But more than either one of them, he wanted what they had.

Frodo backed away, forgotten. He thought for a moment of sitting back down at his place at the table, but soon decided against it. He shambled into the kitchen, and escaped through the little backdoor, into the chill outside.

***

Frodo wasn't sure why he started collecting them. Sometimes he'd take a stroll through the woods or the fields, listen to the streams and the leaves, and wonder why it felt like less than it used to. He'd become aware, little by little, how alone he and the forest were, and how... insufficient. There was no firey wheel in front of his eyes, and his feet were unblistered and strong, and the lush forest held no magic, nor any promise.

And he'd somehow always find one of them when he gazed about, and then he'd walk over to it, pulled by some invisible force. He would pick it up and look at how pretty it was. And then he'd have to take it.

He stored them in his study at first, but the smell grew more acrid and he found them a place in the old unused cellar near the river. It had been his special place once, as a child. It was cool and damp, and dark, and he'd come by day and arrange his collection in the crossing shafts of sunlight, surrounded by the smell of damp decay and grass.

He knew no-one else could appreciate it, but when he arranged them like that, he would feel cool and strong and peaceful, and he wouldn't hurt.

***

The day had turned into a blue evening outside and in the inside, candles had been lit. By the small table next to the living room window hunched a figure with a quill over a piece of parchment, and Frodo was struck by how unusual it was that that wasn't him. 'What are you writing, Sam?'

'Oh - a letter to my Aunt May. She's up in Tookborough now and I thought she might send me some seeds...' He looked embarrassed. 'It isn't easy, workin' with letters, though Mr. Bilbo taught me.'

'Let me see that.' Frodo stepped up to look at Sam's letter. 'I think it's fine,' he judged after a moment looking through it.

'I know my writing's not much...'

The handwriting was a bit scrawly, unrefined - but round and pleasant. Bilbo had once told him that you could tell a lot about a person by looking at their hand-writing, and then told him how. 'See this?' Frodo said and showed the letter to Sam, who bent over it, head almost touching Frodo's. 'The S and the T, do you see? - fine, vulnerable - that's pain, that's secret pain.'  
Sam scratched his head. 'Must be quite a secret, then, since I know nothing of it.'

'Your handwriting...' Frodo was feeling peaceful, at home, just looking at the lines on the letter in the lamplight. 'Nothing could be more naked, Sam. See - everything stands firmly on the line. Dependable, loyal, self-effacing...'

Frodo looked sideways at Sam, and even in the odd light - cold blue from the window on one side, warm and yellow candlelight on the other - he could guess a flush had crept on his face. He hoped Sam was pleased; thought so, for sure... Sam was easy to please with the slightest compliment. 'Now sign it,' he said softly, not taking his eyes off Sam's face. 'Your signature.'

Sam wrote it - vulnerable S's, firmly on the line.

***

Frodo paced his study. He'd told Rose an hour ago that he was going to write something. He tried to sit still and write, just in case she walked by and listened at the door, but the only thing he'd managed to put on paper was_Where for the love of the Shire is he?_

Sam had been gone since morning, since he'd said he'd take the carriage down to Bywater to see to some saplings. Frodo had been to the market and found a whole new set of garden pottery he wanted to show Sam. They had been met with Rose's approval, but somehow that hadn't felt like enough. He'd bought them for Sam.

An hour after nightfall Rosie knocked on the study door. Frodo scrambled up from the armchair he'd sunk into, drowsing in spite of his anxiety, and rushed to open the door for her. (He'd left the papers on the table, and by now they also read _I would prefer it if you told us the next time you decide to be gone for the whole day, you'll worry Rosie to death_, and _I love you and I love her and I want you here, here,_ which he'd crossed over twice, then coloured over, smudged the ink until he was as sure as he felt he could be that the text was pure and proper but there was the ink stain still, cooling on the table, a black smudge soaking through the paper to the desk and leaving a mark he'd need to scrub and scrub for hours before it was truly gone.)

'I'm going to bed now,' Rosie informed him. She was wearing a woollen shawl over something loose, pale yellow and frilly. She was quite well covered, but Frodo still felt like he was violating some propriety by looking at her. Her skin and face were lovely in the lamplight, round and healthy and soft.

He blinked. 'Oh. Yes. I think I'll stay up writing for a while longer,' Frodo almost fumbled, but forced a reassuring smile.  
Rosie gave him an enigmatic, lingering look. Frodo kept the smile on and refused to flinch. She might know, but all he could do was keep pretending.

'He's all right, you know,' Rosie said. 'He probably got pulled into the Dragon by a friend.'

'Oh, you mean Sam?' Frodo said airily. 'Yes, that's what I assumed, too. I'm sure he'll be back tomorrow. Perhaps the friend put him up for the night.'

Rosie nodded firmly. 'Quite so. So you might as well go to bed too.'

'But I wasn't...' he began, but she gave him a lopsided smile and a kiss on the cheek and then was down the hall and through the round door of the master bedroom before he could put together a coherent thought.

Frodo's thoughts lingered for a moment on that room. He'd tried sleeping in it after Bilbo had left, but had never felt comfortable there. The lingering Bilboness of it had made him feel like an intruder. He'd been in the room just once since Rosie and Sam had moved into it. What would the essence of the room feel like now? He imagined lying on the bed, under the covers, and looking up at the tops of the pillars; imagined the play of shadows until he could describe it perfectly, if asked.

What would Rose feel like, lying there in her night dress?

He closed his eyes, and there behind his eyelids, he imagined.

Frodo drifted to sleep around 3 am, head on his arms on his desk, and dreamt of water.

***

His neck had a crink in it; it hurt to move it. The stump of his middle finger was aching for whatever reason - small, annoying pains. His clothes were rumpled and sticky with sweat.

He opened the study door carefully, slowly, cringing for the whine of the hinges. He would oil them later that day. Perhaps the rest of the household would still be asleep.

He saw no-one in the corridor, so he shambled quietly down to the kitchen. Judging by the sun it was later than he'd first thought - perhaps closer to midday than dawn. Rosie would be about already somewhere around Bag End. He put water to heat for a bath.

Then he went to the hall to look for Rose, and saw a familiar coat hung up by the door.

Swallowing slightly, he walked to the open door and peeked into the garden. Sam was bent over by the gate, his back to the door, pulling shoots of grass out of the flowerbed. Frodo watched him quietly.

Two new jars were set on each side of the gate, yellow and red flowers planted in them. The jars were wide and round, with simple flower patterns in green and yellow. Frodo looked down on his right, and saw three more such pieces of pottery by the doorway, next to the two Frodo had brought from the market. Sam had bought new ones before he knew Frodo had.  
It shouldn't hurt.

Sam hadn't seen him, so he went back indoors and took the bath tub into his bedroom. It took three trips through the back door to the water pump to fill it with cool water before he poured the steaming water in. He didn't see Rosie. She must not be in the smial after all.

He left the door of his bedroom ajar and undressed slowly, waiting for the water to cool to the right temperature. Waiting for...

He folded his clothes on his bed, then slowly sunk into the warm water. He took a piece of soap in his hand, but didn't move to use it yet. The water was just right, which meant it would soon be cool.

_Please come._

He felt sure he was insane.

He washed himself slowly, thoroughly.

***

Changed, hair still damp, Frodo made his way back into the hall, only to find a breakfast for one laid out there. Plates were clinking in the kitchen. It could be Rose, he reminded himself as he walked to the kitchen door. Sam's back was turned as he bent over the dishes, and Frodo knew then he was sick of looking at the back of Sam's neck. 'When did you get back?' he said, forcing cheer into his voice.

Sam turned, finally. But his eyes stayed on Frodo only for a fraction of a second before wandering towards the floor. 'I was down in Bywater, sir, looking at the saplings like I said I would, but the Bolgers down there were having a bit of a pest problem, if you follow, and...'

'And you stayed to help, of course,' Frodo smiled. 'We figured it was something like that. I see you got yourself some new jars,' he added, as if it was perfectly all right and he couldn't care less.

'Aye... well... Gammer Bolger was tired of them, see, and said I could take them for my troubles, and I thought they would go nicely with that new paint we put on the fence.'

'They do, Sam,' Frodo said, feeling crestfallen. The jars and pots he'd brought from the market had cost him a pretty penny. They were blue and sinuous, with trees carved delicately on the sides; a touch of Gondor there, whoever had made them.

'Not that yours weren't lovely as elf-make, Mr. Frodo,' Sam said quickly, still not meeting his eyes. 'I just thought - if you follow - they're more hobbity and right there, Gammer Bolger's old jars.'

Frodo did feel hurt, hurt and rejected, but he swallowed it. He took two steps forward to squeeze Sam's shoulder. 'You are absolutely right, dear Sam,' he said.

He wanted Sam to look up at him now, he wanted Sam to smile. That would make everything more than all right. Sam could look at him and see the Ring and see all they'd seen and Sam could make him feel full again, and not so chilly and damp. Look at me.

Sam's eyes stayed downcast. 'And Rosie said she didn't mind me staying over there, really. I promise I'll tell you both the next time.'

Frodo's heart stopped for a beat. His hand dropped away from Sam's shoulder.

'Sorry, sir,' Sam said, and turned again to the dishes, turned his back on him.

'Sam,' Frodo said.

His heart was pounding, but he twined his arms around Sam's shoulders anyway.

He'd missed this so much. When had they stopped touching? Sam felt as strong and reassuring as he always had. Sam felt like life, like he'd felt in the wastes, something to leech on when there wasn't anything else left to draw strength from. With Sam's heartbeat in his ears, he didn't feel the damp anymore, didn't feel alone and unliving. Sam breathed in. And shuffled.

'All right, Mr. Frodo,' he said, and patted his hand awkwardly.

Frodo retreated. The life was gone. 'I'm... I'm glad to see you back.' He stumbled over the words. Then he patted Sam's shoulder once more, quick and hard, and escaped. He walked half way down to the river and ran the rest of the way, into the little cellar he'd found delightful as a boy. He crashed in and pulled the moss-covered door close behind him, and gasped and gasped.

After it passed, he stayed. It was cool and calm there. Outside of time.

***

Elanor Gamgee was born on the 25th of March, 1421. Rosie was in labour for an hour and a half from start to finish, which for Frodo seemed excruciating indeed until he was told by Marigold Cotton that this was the fastest and easiest birth she had ever been midwife to. Sam had paced about the hall up until the moment the first cry of the babe sounded, muffled by the walls, from the master bedroom; at that point not even the stern duo of midwives could keep Sam from rushing to his wife's side. Frodo could hear the ladies protesting and Sam's voice, full and happy, under the healthy baby cries. Curious, he wandered to the door after him.

He couldn't even get a glance in before Pansy bustled out with a bucket and an armful of towels. Frodo took a step back, not the least from the look on Pansy's face when he saw him lingering outside the door. 'This is no place for you now, Mr. Baggins, though you may own it!' she informed him under her breath, shoving him away best she could with both arms full. 'Bad enough the father pushes in like that...'

He backed away, back into the hall, and let her make her way into the kitchen and the back yard. The water she had been carrying was pink, and Frodo could hear her throwing it away. The towels, he realized belatedly, were covered in blood.

He didn't try to look in again.

***

'I must be off to Crickhollow, it seems,' Sam said, coming into the hall waving a letter in his hand. 'Mr. Merry wrote about some woods that've been burned, and the trees ain't pleased. I'm not looking to have any displeased trees, not after the what we've seen 'em do!'

Frodo was wrapped up in blankets next to the fire; he hadn't really felt cold, but it was nice and soft there in the big old armchair. 'Is there anything left of the Lady's gift?' he asked, trying to sound disinterested. He was getting good at it.

'Aye, some - it's magic, it seems. It doesn't diminish quickly, though there's less of it every day. It will be all gone one day,' he said resolutely. 'I suppose there's nothing in life that can keep on givin' forever, like in those stories Rosie's so fond of.'

Frodo wasn't listening. He was thinking about the trip. He was achingly aware that the road, even travelling in a carriage, would take Sam all day, and he'd have to stay overnight there - if he wanted to get any work done, even longer.  
It used to be Sam never left his side; he'd leave Sam's. Now every time Sam looked away, Frodo felt like he was being forgotten. They hadn't embraced for months.

He smiled. 'Say hello to Merry for me,' he said.

Sam was gone the better part of a week.

Frodo tried to help Rosie around the house, but half the time she drove him out of the kitchen or refused to let him dip his hands in soapy water. She would put Elanor in his lap, though, and he'd be stuck holding the dribbling baby, sitting petrified at the idea of how easy it would be to accidentally break her. Elanor didn't seem to mind him any more than she minded Rosie or Sam, but whenever she got hungry or displeased or bored she'd let out ear-piercing cries that would make Frodo feel like crying too, because he simply didn't know what to do to stop it. He'd find Rosie, or Rosie would find them, and then she'd make him watch while she tended to Elanor's needs, always telling him 'This is how - see?' and he nodded, but when she cried again in his lap it would be just as it was the last time.

There were times, though, when Elanor dozed in his lap peacefully enough. At those times Frodo would watch her, carefully, afraid of waking her with a look. She had a funny little nose and a chubby face and an unusually strong shock of golden-blonde hair, and when her eyes were open and stared up at Frodo like they sometimes did they would be blue and big and Frodo would think how odd it was that they could still be so different from his.

He liked it that no-one else could see his thoughts. He could think whatever he liked, behind his eyes. He could think what it would be like to be her father. He could imagine what Rosie and Sam said to each other when they were alone. He could imagine being wrapped up in them, Rosie on one side, Sam on the other, never again alone or apart. He could know them even down to their sexes in his thoughts, and their bodies were vivid in his mind, even Rosie, though her body was a mystery to him. In his head they had no secrets from him.

If he tried hard enough he could be more like them or at least sound like them and look like them. If he tried hard enough he could just make sure they always saw him as he wanted them to see him, just... as long as he could be normal for them, and not cold and hollow, then maybe one day they could love him so much it wouldn't matter if he talked at night about the dreams or about the collection, or about how good the Ring had felt to hold. Sam knew. He could even mention how easy it was to plunge a sword into someone. Sam knew that too.

Rosie's eyes were so sharp, and so knowing. But she looked at him kindly - with trust, and a kind of compassion that was never patronizing - layered as it was with teasing. 'You're not fooling me, Mr. Frodo Baggins.'

She had never been outside of the Shire, Frodo remembered. She hadn't seen -- didn't know... couldn't imagine.

And he could.

***

Sam had sent a letter ahead, so Frodo knew when he'd be getting back. To make sure Rosie wouldn't see how jittery and happy he was, he went for a long walk after tea. He didn't see one of them, anything to collect - not even once, and he didn't spare a thought to the forgotten cellar. He counted seconds as he strolled around the hills and fields, and as he paused to talk with flirty little Lila Proudfoot, making sure he would be late for supper.

Finally he made his way back through the still-bright summer evening, strolling slowly and casually up the hill in case anyone was looking out of Bag End's windows. The lamps were already being lighted indoors, a golden glow that grew fuller and brighter as the day slowly receded. His home.

The first thing he heard when he opened the door was a high-pitched squeal from Elanor, and then Rosie's voice, addressing the baby. Then Sam's voice. '...warm enough for swimming, if you're up to that sort of thing.' Frodo's heart jumped a beat at the sound, and he thought if this time Sam wouldn't shirk if Frodo put his arms around him, or if maybe this time Sam would...

'Any lasses coming with us?' said a new voice, fetching a chuckle from Sam. Frodo froze in the hallway. He hadn't expected them to have visitors, and the thought filled him with distaste. He put on a new face, one he thought fit for the occasion, and strolled into the hall.

Fredegar Bolger was sitting by the supper table, face pinker and healthier than Frodo remembered from the last time he'd seen him since he'd been released from the lockholes. His skin hung loose over his cheeks, though, residue of his former fatness and recent thinness, and there were red blotches on his face. In the candlelight there, sitting in Frodo's house, he looked profoundly ugly to Frodo. His put-on smile tightened.

Fredegar noticed him first. 'Frodo, old lad!' he said, raising his mug of Sam's homebrew at him in salute. 'Quite a set-up you have here. I was just saying - you have a smial given to you TWICE, repaired by people working for free, and get two live-in servants - if you ever get tired of this, let me know, I'll take it off your hands!'

'They're hardly servants,' Frodo said as he sat down at his place at the table, completely miserable. Rosie got up immediately and went to fetch him a plate.

Fredegar watched her go. 'You don't say.' Frodo saw his eyes flick downwards, to her full hips swaying slightly under the dress, and felt like scratching those eyes out.

'We're going swimming in the river tomorrow, Mr. Frodo,' Sam said, acknowledging him at last. 'But I don't reckon you care for that. Wouldn't go myself if Rosie didn't insist it's good for me.'

'Oh, I think I'll tag along, if you don't mind,' Frodo said airily. 'I might just watch by the river, though.'

'Wait, so there are lasses coming along?' Fredegar asked, and Sam laughed again.

'I might be coming to just watch too,' Rosie said serenely, setting Frodo's plate on the table in front of him.

'And Fredegar'll wear breeches,' Sam said sternly. 'And so will Fredegar.'

They all broke into laughter at this, and Frodo followed suit, hoping he wasn't too pale or too red now, or that the ambient light would cover it if he was.

***

'I'm sorry, Fredegar, but you know we only have two beds,' Frodo said. 'We could set up a cot for you in the hall, but I think you'd be much more comfortable staying at the inn.'

'Oh, our bed is wide enough for three,' Rosie said, and every lad in the room thought the same thing. She noticed and continued smoothly, 'You three could sleep there snugly, and I could take Frodo's bed for the night.'

'How about we take Frodo's bed together?' Fredegar said, looping his arm around Rosie's waist. 'Haven't you been married to Sam long enough?'

Rosie laughed and slapped him gently. Frodo was disgusted, but Sam only grinned, and then laid a look of such tender pride on Rosie that it didn't go unnoticed even by Fredegar. He released her. 'You're a lucky lad, Sam.'

'I am the lucky one,' Rosie said and wound her arms around Sam for a quick kiss.

***

Frodo announced he would be going ahead to bed, and retreated into the master bedroom. He was glad to be able to undress and put on his night shirt without an audience. He climbed into a slightly chilly but clean bed, feeling like a guest in his own smial. After a while he drifted off into sleep, the sound of voices still sounding through the corridors.

The sound of wood screeching on wood drew him back into a muzzy state of half-sleep, and then two more such sounds in quick procession had him blinking the sleep from his eyes. The night outside was pitch black, but a candle flickered in the chamber. Fredegar placed the candle on the bedside while he yanked off his shirt. Frodo closed his eyes and put his head back on the pillow, trying to go back to sleep as if he'd never woken at all.

'Are you still awake, Frodo?'

Frodo sighed and turned. 'Just woke up a little when you came in, Fredegar. Is Sam coming soon?'

Fredegar's grin distorted in the firelight; making him look not only unfamiliar but also indistinguishable; like a hundred other grinning faces in candlelight. 'Rosie-maintenance,' he explained.

'...Oh.'

'I don't expect he'll be joining us tonight!'

***

Though Rosie had found each of them their own blankets it wasn't long before Fredegar's was bundled up in his feet. Consequently Frodo's blanket was stolen. He tried to make do with the one third that the sleeping Fredegar allowed him for a while, before collecting the bundle for himself. That, it turned out, was clammy and smelled of Fredegar's sweat.

He fell asleep after five hours of tossing and turning, and his dreams all fell apart. He wandered in a land of mirrors and mist, where no vision stayed for more than a moment, disappearing to be replaced by different, unrelated one. When he opened his eyes to the eleven o'clock sun the next day, the dreams still danced in front of his eyes, and the blanket still smelled of Fredegar.

He made his way to the kitchen, which was empty and clean, and to the back yard, not bothering to change out of his night-shirt. He pumped up fresh water and splashed it, cold, over himself, feeling covered in filth. Finally he dunked a whole bucket over himself and walked, dripping, back into his own bedroom to change.

The bed was made, sheets tucked firmly and neatly in place, but as soon as Frodo had dried himself even nominally he pressed his face into the pillow. The pillow smelled clean; no lingering scent, no wrinkles in the smooth white cloth.  
He closed his eyes and buried his face half into it, curling in on himself for a moment. His fingers closed in on the fabric, crushing it in his fist.

He wanted his Sam to wrap his arms around him and keep him safe again, safe from the terrible light and the freezing wind. He was warm and he was fed but the wind was still there, inside; he felt it, and he still needed to be kept safe.

He was alone. Alone still, or again, or for the first time - he didn't know which. He knew that the singing carrying through the window from somewhere down the road, the bright voices and the laughter, were for someone else. There was nothing lonelier than knowing that.

Later he noticed a note on the bedside table, written in Rosie's round, practical hand.

_Have gone swimming by the bend upstream from the mill. Sam and Fredegar still resolved to wear breeches. Join us anytime!  
Rosie_

Frodo considered staying in, perhaps with a book, something to take his mind off the whole sordid deal. The stars knew he wasn't looking forward to spending time with that... with Fredegar. But then he thought of Fredegar making Sam laugh, Fredegar watching Rosie's sinuous movements, staring at the curves of her thigh under her dress, right in front of Sam... and fetched a new towel in case the water wasn't too cool to take a dip in.

***

Sam and Fredegar splashed about in the water, diving and splashing each other. Frodo opened the book he had grabbed at the last moment before leaving the smial. Now it seemed it was the most entertainment he was bound to get today. The wind rustled through the leaves above him, casting a distracting play of light on the pages.

Rosie plopped down next to him, Elanor asleep at last in the basket her mother had been rocking for the better part of an hour now.

'You won't go in?' she asked. 'It looks just lovely.'

'I'm fine,' Frodo answered. He didn't need to hear any more comments about breeches.

They both looked up when there was a loud yelp from the river. 'He's drowning me!' Sam tackled Fredegar in the water and pulled him under. The two smacked and choked each other and called for help in between.

"Why is it that when lads play, they always play at killing each other?" Rosie mused. Frodo looked up sharply. Her smile was slightly bitter as she pulled the straw hat down on her forehead, shielding her eyes, watching them. Frodo stayed quiet. She looked at him then, and read his frown.

Her lips parted, then closed; and then she spoke, not without compassion. 'The thing with Sam...' Rosie said softly. 'It's like the sun shines on you and it's glorious, then he forgets you and it's very, very cold.'

Frodo knew exactly what she meant.

'He's not aware of it, you can be sure,' she continued. 'When you've got his attention you feel like you're the only person in the world. But you can't love everything and everyone like that all the time, and Sam's never learned to stop trying.'

'So I'm learning,' Frodo said softly. His heart ached. In the river, Fredegar pushed Sam under the water. Sun-bleached curls floated alone on the waves for a moment, and then Sam splashed and sputtered his way to the surface.

***

Summer grew old. Frodo knew the illness would return - the ice and the darkness, where he would taste death for a night, and face consciousness again the next day. Sam was away almost all the time, it seemed - and when he was home, even Rosie had trouble getting any attention from him, the way Elanor had charmed her dad. But Rosie could snuggle up next to Sam as he played with his firstborn, or gazed upon her sleeping in his arms, a thoroughly besotted look on his face. Many nights Frodo would close himself up in his study and write, write, write it all out like a madman's scrawl, the old days, the horror, the love.

Then the letter arrived.

_Dear Frodo, I think the time has come to go on one last journey..._

He'd misplaced his pen knife so he was standing in the kitchen with a bread knife clutched tightly in his hand as he read the letter. The look on his face must have been queerer than usual because Rosie, passing by with a basin of dishes, glanced over his shoulder at it. He quickly folded it closed again.

'Oh... I'm sorry,' Rosie said. 'Who was that from?'

Rosie always read her letters out loud, so she didn't tend to remember other people liked their correspondence private. Frodo knew this, yet it irritated him at this moment. He gritted his teeth and forced his voice to calm into gentle.

'Just a letter from Uncle Bilbo, Rose.'

***

Sam was home that night; tired but happy. The planting was in progress on the fields and so far it looked like 1421 would be an excellent crop year. It wasn't until after supper that Frodo called him to his study and read him the letter.

He lifted his eyes from the letter at last, afraid to see Sam's face, to see his reaction. What he saw, though, lifted his heart, a giddy joy that forced him to lay a hand on his desk to steady himself. Sam gazed aside, eyes wide, mouth slightly twisted in unmistakable sorrow. 'Sam,' Frodo said softly. It wasn't so often these days he said that; he didn't want to plead. But now the name fell from his lips, round and soft, sweet as love, and there was nothing he could or would have done to prevent it. He knew, from that look, that Sam loved him.

Sam let out a breath and looked up at him. "Well, I suppose it's best to sail before the storms start brewin', Elven-made ships or no. I hear winter-time is no time to be taking to the seas."

'Sam.' This time the sound was harsh and metallic even to Frodo's own ears.

'See, I always knew you'd be leavin',' Sam said plainly, looking down. 'And that I'd be stayin'.'

'I see.'

_Is this all it comes down to?_

'We're not alike at all, you see, and it never seemed right, you and me'd be living under the same roof, if you follow,' Sam continued. 'You're Elvish, always were - and me, I'm common as grass.' Whether or not he knew the utter desolation that set in Frodo's heart, Frodo could not tell. He felt like he didn't know Sam at all.

He had an impulse to go away, not necessarily to go with the Elves, but to leave Sam, even though up until that moment he hadn't truly even considered it. Then his tension snapped suddenly. His shoulders relaxed, aching, and his breath began to come fast, through his mouth. He wanted to say at least, 'All right, Sam,' to make it up, to make Sam forget it, forget he'd ever spoken about leaving. He felt tongue-tied. He stared at Sam's brown eyes, the sun-bleached eyebrows white and the eyes themselves shining and empty, nothing but little pieces of brown jelly with a black dot in them, meaningless, without relation to him. You were supposed to see the soul through the eyes, to see love through the eyes, the one place you could look at another being and see what really went on inside, and in Sam's eyes Frodo saw nothing more now than he would have seen if he had looked at the hard, bloodless surface of a mirror. Frodo felt a painful wrench in his breast, and he covered his face with his hands. It was as if Sam has been suddenly snatched away from him.

They did not know each other. They were not friends. It struck Frodo like a horrible truth, true for all time, true for the people he had known in the past and for those he would know in the future: each stood before him, and he would know time and time again that he would never know them, and the worst was that there would always be the illusion, for a time, that he did know them, and that he and they were completely in harmony and alike.

His hands fell from his face, and there was Sam's hand on his arm, the touch he'd longed for for so long. 'Are you all right?'

'I'm fine, Sam,' he replied softly, tonelessly. 'I need to think about this for a moment. Please leave.'

Sam looked heartbroken, and that gave Frodo a perverse sort of pleasure for a moment, but that faded with the closing of the door. He slumped into the writing chair and stared at the letter in his hands, at the scrawled handwriting of the chair's previous owner.

Took-spawn - batty Bagginses - so high-born and yet so queer. But they had been Hobbiton's own mad Bagginses for so many decades now, long peaceful years rolling one into another. Bilbo had left, but Bag End still needed its Baggins.

With the last drop of his unexpected epiphany Frodo realized that he wasn't going anywhere. Before he knew it, Bilbo's letter lay crumpled on the floor of the study. It was as if a door had suddenly slammed close, and his fate chosen anew, as sure as if he'd just accepted a sealed envelope from a wizened old man.

Epiphanies are often illusions.

***

Frodo burned the crumpled letter in the fireplace in the great hall of Bag End. He watched the heat and thought of another evening, long, long years ago, it seemed... and a golden band lying there in the heart of the flame.

He spoke nothing more to Sam, but answered his anxious glance with a reassuring smile over the breakfast table. He hoped this would convince Sam he could go about his duties and not confront Frodo, at least until he had decided what to do next. It felt odd, this sudden turnaround - after all these months, not wanting to be alone with Sam!

Rosie seemed to notice the tension, for her usual breakfast talk struck Frodo as slightly forced. Had Sam talked to her? The thought made Frodo's teeth hurt, so he decided not to think about it. He just had to hope for the best.

He escaped soon after breakfast to go on one of his walks.

It struck Frodo for the first time that fall had truly arrived, though it still seemed fresh after the long summer of 1421. It had rained in the night and the air was thick with the warm mushroomy smell of autumn. Frodo found himself soaking it in, memories evoked with each breath, and almost getting distracted from the nagging urgency of his situation. He wandered towards the woods and found a treestump by a stream to sit on.

This was one of the little streamlets that began in a spring somewhere deeper in the woods and ran into the Water. The sky had been overcast all morning, and Frodo was in no doubt that soon little droplets would add to the stream, creating small craters like pebbles scarring skin that was never still enough to be smooth.

Like wrinkles on a face.

He decided he needed some time with Sam, alone. He had to find some way to tell Sam that he was staying. And he was staying, but things couldn't stay the way they had been - uncomfortable, strained. Something had changed, and Frodo felt, for once, confident that he was in the position to take that change and make it go the way he wanted. He knew something Sam and Rosie didn't - he knew he wasn't leaving. He knew there was no need for sorrow, now. They could be together, no questions, no secrets, no lies, for as long as their days would allow. All he needed to do was dispel this cloud, this gloom; sort these tangled lines of devotion between them. It could be so simple, then. If he just found the way!

The days in the Field of Cormallen stood out in his memory as the very peak and climax of joy in his life. It still sparkled brand new in his memory - having had nothing, then being safe and fed and the impossible battle won, and Sam still by his side, it had seemed like he had had everything he could possibly want. He'd watched Sam's hair spread out on a white pillow as the gardener-warrior slept, hair washed and tangles combed by some unseen stranger's hands. He'd twined his fingers with Sam's. He'd lain on unimaginable softness, surrounded by the smell of leaves and clean linen, and the whole world had been contained in a blurry line of curls and pillow as he'd been drawn back into the welcoming dark of sleep.

Now happiness came in little droplets spattered here and there on a grey canvas of days. There was Cormallen on the corners of Rosie's mouth when she laughed; and it was there when the note of Sam's voice changed, one tiny note lower, and a word could make Frodo shiver with joy.

That's how it should be, always: with no lies and no secrets. Soon it will be, Frodo promised himself.

Just a little while longer. Just until the perfect moment came, and he could turn their days around. His heart shivered, but his mind was made up, and his feet took him back to Bag End without consulting either.

***

The perfect moment never came. Every morning Frodo would wake up sure that this would be the day that he would sort it all out, and each night he would go to bed promising to get it over with tomorrow. Rosie was always there, and Frodo didn't want her to know there had even been a chance that he might leave. No. This was between him and Sam.

Even as he vaguely knew that the hour was growing late, and for all the hint-dropping of Sam, and though the half-packed backpack sat by his bedside, Bonfire Night still snuck up on him. Somehow he had blocked the date out of his mind, had stopped counting the days, and now suddenly the time was out.

Frodo stood by the fence near the fields and watched as the town's strong young lads lugged wood up the hill, in the distance. He could hear laughter and singing on the wind. _There's no turning back now,_ he thought.

_There's always a chance to turn back,_ another self whispered. The thought made him cringe, but then it nudged forth another.

_If we ride out, we will be alone. There can't be any interruptions, or any risk of discovery, or any chance for him to leave me suddenly there. He will have to stay. I will holdon to his hands, though he'll try to pull away. He'll have to listen. He will have to hear._

Through all his hesitation, Frodo's decision had not wavered. The sea didn't call to him; he was sure he could live all his life happily without ever seeing another Elf. Bilbo was dear, but old, and he'd be there to say goodbye, and what more can a hobbit do for an old friend?

The fires were lighted as the darkness fell.

Merry and Pippin had come over all the way from Crickhollow and were staying at the inn. They came to call at nightfall, unannounced, and like a fresh water spring running suddenly into a still pool they dishevelled the fragile gloom that had settled over Bag End. They brought their new fiancées with them, ladies of Brandy Hall and the North Tooks, Estella and Diamond. Suddenly the house was full of voices and clatter; it even seemed as if the number of candles in the hole had doubled and the rooms filled with light. Elanor received more attention than she ever had in Frodo's memory since the few weeks after her birth when both Sam and Rosie's relatives had all flocked to see the pretty new little Gamgee.

Frodo found such strange memories in his cousins' smiles, in the touch of their hands. That night, it seemed, ghosts of past days were clamouring to come haunt him. Pippin was so different now. Frodo had left a tween at the banks of Anduin and found some sort of a king on the Field of Cormallen. And Merry was the child who'd sung songs about barmaids and knobby staffs in Brandy Hall during dinner and gotten Frodo in a world of trouble for teaching him those; and the same hobbit now had a dark scar from being struck by an orc, and a paleness that had never been there before the war.

Frodo could feel something both old and new between them when they touched to shake hands. The parasite shadows that had lodged inside both of them slithered between their hands and greeted each other just the same. He looked up and saw a startled look on Merry's face. He wondered if it mirrored his own at all.

Rosie took Elanor and went ahead to the fires with Merry and Pippin and their laughing fiancées. He watched them briefly, noticing hands tucked into each other indiscriminately between the four young lovers, and then turned to Sam.

Sam had been glancing at Frodo worriedly throughout the evening, and they'd both made excuses to stay behind. Frodo had a fairly good idea what he'd had in mind. He spoke first. 'You will see me on my way in the morning, won't you, Sam?'  
Sam seemed relieved and sad at the same time for being asked, and Frodo wanted to kiss him so much that he had to dig his fingers into his own arm in order to keep from reaching for him. The thought seemed like such a possibility, here in the shadowed Bag End hall. The light had left with the guests.

'I told Rosie you're off to see Mr. Bilbo in Rivendell,' Sam said. 'I don't see there bein' any reason to worry her, and...' Sam looked down and away. 'An' I don't think she'd much like the thought of it, Mr Frodo. She doesn't know how it's a right thing, like we do.'

'Oh, Sam,' Frodo said quietly, still clutching his own arm. _I will not go. I will not!_

***

The Red Book lay in his backpack. It wasn't finished yet. Somehow he didn't feel it would be right to leave it, as it was, incomplete and unrevised, even if they weren't going very far.

The morning passed in a peculiar mix of haste and anticipation. The night's meagre rest had wiped no lines of worry from Sam's brow, and Frodo noticed Rosie's anxious glances at her husband. Keeping his feelings secret had never been one of Sam's best skills.

Eventually as they drew their cloaks on in the hall, bellies full of a plentiful breakfast, Frodo's quiet gentle question prompted Sam to confess his thoughts.

'I don't like telling her lies,' he said under his breath, 'but there isn't really naught else I can do. I am that torn in two.'

'Poor Sam!' Frodo answered equally softly. 'It will feel like that, I'm afraid. But we all will be healed. We were meant to be solid and whole, and we will be.'

Sam looked up at him, confusion in brown eyes, but unquestioning, always unquestioning. The tales and pledges and requests and revelations hung now on the tip of Frodo's tongue, all thought of privacy or stalling forgotten. He took a breath and his lips parted.

'I packed you sandwiches and pie,' said Rosie's voice from the kitchen door, 'and there are small wine flasks and some wrapped taters and meatballs.' She bustled in carrying wrapped packages from which appetising scent wafted, and Frodo's words faded into the air before they were ever spoken.

At the gate, under a prickly fall wind, Rosie wound her arms around Sam's shoulders and kissed him goodbye on the cheek, and then did the same to Frodo. He looked up at Sam and saw him smiling sadly. He stumbled through his goodbyes under the gaze of Rosie's beautiful Cormallen eyes, her kiss still burning his cheek, and for a moment it seemed like the most natural thing in the world that they should ride back before the evening and tell her everything had been a ruse; that the three of them would all laugh together, then, and fall in each others' arms, knowing a terrible mistake had been avoided.

They turned away, then, and made their way down the hill to the stables quietly, side by side. The ponies Strider and Bill greeted them with neighs and nuzzles. Frodo had almost forgotten Strider, at times, though he'd been down here every now and then on his idle walks. It was quiet in Hobbiton, this early. The stableboy handing them their saddles yawned mightily every few minutes. The air smelled fresh and moist and cool; the smell of an early morning before a new journey. Frodo tried not to think of how final that suddenly felt.

The morning blossomed as they rode. They took the Stock Road over the hills and went towards Woody End, taking their time, riding leisurely in near silence. As they approached the Green Hills, more and more yellow and red now, Frodo knew the hobbits were just getting to work around the town, and they could not have walked through Hobbiton without being accosted by gossips or friendly neighbours. It struck him then how quiet they had been.

'Shall we camp on the Green Hills, sir?' asked Sam almost as soon as Frodo had thought this. 'There's no hurry, is there? If the ship leaves at night.'

'No, no,' Frodo said, though in truth he'd forgotten the more careful instructions in Bilbo's letter. 'We are in good time.'

There was no need to build a fire, so they simply let the ponies graze while they took out their packed meals.

This was the time, and Frodo knew it. It would soon be over. He glanced up at Sam stealthily, a flicker of eyes, no more, as he opened the wrappings of the meatballs.

Sam had carried the wine flasks, and now handed one over. 'Rosie thought we deserved some of the best wine we have left, for a going away present,' he said. 'It's recent, but a good year.' He added a little hastily, 'I meant to ask you... since it is your wine as well of course...'

'And meant to be drunk, not talked about!' Frodo exclaimed, laughing. He hoped his nervousness didn't carry through. He raised his flask. 'To the Shire, and the happiest days of my life!'

'To the Shire!' Sam raised his flask in answer with confidence, and they drank. 'You seem cheerful suddenly,' he added.

'I'm suddenly quite happy,' lied Frodo. 'To... to be going.'

There was a pang of pain on Sam's face, and Frodo knew that was why he had said that. The pain was so sweet, so lovely. That was the way he knew Sam loved him. That was how he could encourage himself, little by little, to confess it all. 'I've got plans,' he continued, inspired. 'I can write as much as I like there, I imagine. Try to describe the wonder of the living legends...'

'No one will see it though,' Sam said sadly. 'None that hasn't seen the real thing, at any rate.'

Frodo said nothing.

'Are you really planning to leave, then?' Sam said quietly.

Frodo swallowed. 'Why...' he wet his lips. 'Why are you asking all of a sudden?'

'No reason. It's just that sometimes it don't feel real at all.' Sam was looking down at his meal now, fiddling with the wraps.

'Why not?'

'Well, I expected you'd go, since the Ring... changed you so. And you've always been more special than any of us; I knew you were destined for something, and it's got to be better than what we went through.' The words were coming quicker now, blurted out, as if they'd been unspoken for too long. 'Back home, there's not a hobbit who knows an Elf from a Dwarf, or even that they are real, that they live outside of stories and fairytales. They're all so commonplace and closed-up, like. Like Freddie.'

Frodo took that as a compliment.

'Oh, forget I said anything,' Sam added quickly, stuffing a sandwich in his mouth, still not looking up at Frodo. 'You know, Rosie worries her cooking isn't good enough for us who've had Elven dishes,' he said then with a fond smile. Changing the subject.  
'I've gotten to like even her onion and liver pies,' Frodo joked. Sam laughed - that particular delicacy had never had many admirers - so Frodo continued, 'I've gotten to like her smoked taters and salmon better than the feasts of Lord Elrond...' His voice grew quieter as he watched Sam smile at the air, remembering. His smile caught the sun and gave it back twice as bright and warm. 'I've gotten to like everything about the way you live. It's a great love story. Without you two I would...' Frodo stopped. Sam wasn't smiling anymore. Sam was eating.

'Ah, meatballs and taters! I don't know which is the better part of a meal!'

'What?'

'Spiced taters are the best of the best - but the meatballs...!' He was tasting a bit of one, then a bit of the other, the attention he'd been giving to Frodo now suddenly entirely focused on the lumps of nourishment. Frodo remembered Rosie, in a bright summer day by the river, and feeling cold under the sun. 'That's how I first knew she was the one I wished for, you know,' Sam continued. 'Meatballs and taters. She cooked enough for five families one night when her mother was feeling poorly just on Midsummer Eve's eve, and I'd never tasted anything better. It could be one day we'll have enough children to make up five families. I have a funny feeling there'll be plenty of little ones. We've talked about it, see, and we both know--'

'Sam, please, slow down!' Frodo laughed.

'Oh, I'm sorry, Mr. Frodo! I just love her so. I love the Shire so. I wish you could stay and see it too. I wish the dark had never touched you!'

'Oh... Oh.' He was silent for a moment. 'Sam, I need to tell you something.'

'Yes, Mr. Frodo?'

'I thought... it's never too late, you know. We might go back.'

Frodo did not dare to look up from his unwrapped, uneaten meal. Not just yet. Sam was silent.

'Sir?'

Frodo released the breath he'd been holding. 'Of course. Let's say, for argument's sake, we went to meet Bilbo and the others, said good-bye to them all, and then rode back together - back to Rosie - and lived at Bag End, the three of us, and Elanor and any other children that might come. There's no real need for me to go away. I am not too ill. A little headache and heartache a few times of the year! And when duties allow, you and I could still ride out - meet the Elves that stay -'

'Mr. Frodo...'

'...Especially with the children, you could always use a third person to help...'

Sam shifted uncomfortably. 'Well, see. The thing is...'

'What?' Frodo stared at Sam, eyes large and hard. His heart was racing.

'If you stayed, it would be a glorious good thing, and no mistake! But... just, if we're imagining riding back together, there's something I've been thinking. I've heard people say... Well, that it's odd. Rosie and me livin' under your roof and all.'

'You didn't care what other people thought yesterday,' Frodo pointed out, hoping his voice stayed level. 'What does that matter in any case?'

'It doesn't, I suppose,' Sam said quietly. 'But I don't know if it's good for Elanor, growing up with parents folk think are queer.'

'I thought we were heroes.'

'Well, you are, for sure, but there's other talk too, less kind. Far off lands don't mean much to an ordinary hobbit, and they've taken to regarding us as strange the way Bilbo was. And I'm not saying it's right, but some of the less kind things... Well, it's not what I'd like our Elanorelle to grow up hearin'. And that don't have nothing to do with distant lands but just that there's a husband and a wife that live in a gentlehobbit's house and pay no rent for it.'

'Sam, I love you and Rosie, and you both love me. That's all that matters.'

Sam looked away, uncomfortable. 'I love Rosie one way, sir, and you another. And it's the same for my Rosie, but...'

'It's just love, Sam. All of it. Why should that be a threat?'

'I don't want you to go where I can't see you or come to you; but I thought maybe Rosie and I should move out - I'm sure we could find a hole or a house - or build one, with the Cotton lads to help...'

'...You want to move? Leave me?'

'I don't want to be a freeloader, and you've been so sad and odd - you know this - and it's not right, and I think we oughtn't live together.'

Frodo's voice was tight. 'The funny thing - I'm not pretending to be someone I'm not, and you are. I'm honest with you now, Sam. I'm not afraid to say how we all feel. You're not saying it but - there's something - like when I was ill, on the journey, and the time you found me in the tower, it was obvious...'

'What was?' Confused.

Frodo couldn't stop. This was the avalanche he'd been holding back. 'Of course - I know, it is too dangerous, fair enough! We've gone through so much. But I love you, we're bonded, so you can marry and invite her to my home, I don't mind - I wouldn't mind even if she wasn't so lovely, so wise, so... so like the Shire itself... I do adore her. And you can ignore me too, I understand, you can't love everything and everyone like that all the time... But I'm bewildered, forgive me... You're keeping secrets from Rosie, from yourself... you're ignoring everything we have had, what we could have... just like it's not even there... You like potatoes, you like meatballs, which is it, Sam, what do you really like?'

Sam rose to his feet. 'Have I been... am I... Am I still your servant first? I carried you up a mountain. Isn't that enough? What do you want from me? I can't move without you moving! Even my wife! You talk like she's your wife as well as mine! What do you...'

'Shut up!' Frodo screamed. 'You don't understand!' He sprung up and clutched Sam's shoulders. Sam cried out as Frodo brought their mouths together for a rough, toothed kiss. It wasn't at all as he'd imagined. It was nothing like he'd wished. Understand. Understand.

Sam shoved him back. His eyes were round, and his hand shook slightly as he brought it up to brush against his own lips.  
'Sam...' He tried reaching a hand, but Sam recoiled. 'I'm sorry... But you see...'

'I'll... you... but I...' Sam's eyes narrowed. Frodo had never seen that look on his face. It reminded him of Lobelia, the Lobelia from before the quest. He took a step back in horror.

'Is that what it did to you?' Sam shouted. 'Is that how bad it twisted you up? That's just like it, takin' a good pure thing and ruining it!' Tears welled up in Sam's eyes. 'It's so deep in your gut now I don't know how the Elves could take you! Oh Mr. Frodo! I lost you after all!'

'You didn't! This isn't... this isn't the Ring, I swear it! What I feel... you two - it's pure, it is, and true, the one thing in my life that isn't shadow... Sam, I...!'

'Don't touch me!'

'Sam, stop saying that!'

'It's hideous! You're hideous! It's all ruined - even my memories - go away from me, creature! You're not my master! You're not --'

'BE QUIET!'

Frodo remembered a flash of red, and then the feel of something soft and pliable under his hands. He could remember no sight, only the feel. He closed his eyes at one point, he remembered later. He had to squeeze, squeeze harder, make it stop make it stop make it STOP.

And it was quiet.

And he squeezed some more. So it couldn't start up again.

Just a little bit more. To make sure.

And then the red was gone.

And he looked down, and there was -

***

One of the sides of the hill they'd climbed up to have their meal in the sun was a descent marked with several large, jagged boulders. It was almost impossible for a hobbit to climb or descend; the rocks were close together but still far enough apart to make large gaps between them. They were in odd shapes as well, leaning together in some parts, with empty bellies hiding under their upward faces. Frodo saw a fox skirt among the rocks, and thought of the forest's carrion-eaters.

He was violently sick over the precipice, his breakfast splashing across the berry bushes below. He shuddered, cool and fevered in the aftermath, but somehow, he felt strangely calm.

He had to be calm.

He managed to coax Strider to lean down a little - clever pony - and then to heave Sam's heavy body over his back. It took every ounce of his strength, as Sam was larger than him. Bill would have been cleverer still and easier to work with, but Frodo felt unnerved about the pony. He didn't want to try and explain any of this to Bill, even if he was just a pony. He really didn't want to explain this to anybody. Ever.

He led Strider to the precipice. He slid Sam's body (so much heavier now somehow and that felt odd, Frodo had thought he'd be lighter, he wasn't a person anymore, meat should weigh less than a person) off the pony's back and guided Strider by the reins, with a few clicks of the tongue and a slap on his rump, to run back down to the campsite, where Bill was currently grazing.  
Frodo was lucky. The body rolled easily down and slid into one of the dark bellies of the boulders ripped off some mountainside ages ago.

There was a breeze, and Frodo felt cold. He went back to their equipment and fished out a blanket, throwing it over himself for warmth. In a while he'd go collect wood for a fire.

The hills rustled, chirped, creaked, cried out, whispered. Frodo closed his eyes. He felt exhausted and sleepy, as if a blue-black force was pushing him down. As if he was falling, rolling down, into black water.

_~Bag End, 1421~_

  
Frodo sat in the darkness of the bedchamber. The walls were round, hobbity, reassuring, but Frodo didn't see any of it. He sat quietly, deep in thought, eyes solemn and empty.

There was a light, a shaft of it, from a round window up high. It fell on half of Frodo's face.

He had woken long before dawn, woken into darkness. His thoughts were hot and heavy like fever dreams. His mind painted pictures vivid as life. If he closed his eyes, they'd just become clearer.

He fumbled in his coat for the chain around his neck and closed his fist around the object hung there. Someone at the market had caught a glance at it. Frodo had heard a child's voice call out "look, he's got a white stone, do you think it's a treasure?" A stone. It wasn't a stone. He had to clutch it carefully, so it wouldn't shatter. It was a mouse skull.

Stone. Skull. Stillness. Death.

He let out a choked, anguished sound. He couldn't keep it in; it was the price he paid for not screaming.

_If I could just go back... If I could rub everything out..._

_...starting with myself._

Some options were too horrible. He felt the last wisps of his epiphany fade, like spider web caught in a gale.

He got up then, though the sun hadn't, and neither had his housemates. He didn't take a candle; he didn't need one. He made his way to the study, fumbled for the matches, and lit a candle. He found his ink and pen and the red book, and opened the last pages. There were still plenty of empty ones.

He traced his finger across the last written lines. He loved those lines. They were the ending he would have wanted.

He tore the pages out carefully, so the rip wouldn't show, and began writing again.

It wasn't entirely true, what he wrote. There were some concessions to his heart. There had to be, or he wouldn't have the strength to at least make his part of it true.

When he was done, he took the chain from around his neck and chucked it, skull and all, out the window, into the rose bed outside. He opened one of the desk drawers and rummaged around until he found a green stone necklace, carved with a sword and a rose. He slipped that around his neck instead.

Now he was ready. He hoped he was. The morning had broken, and he could hear the sounds of movement from deeper within the smial.

There would be no confessions. There would be no staying. He would step on that ship, and after that, nothing he'd had here in the world would matter. He didn't expect to be happy. He just expected to go away, close his eyes, and stop existing.

He even smiled a little at that thought.

  


**Author's Note:**

> _Frodo sat in the darkness ... 'Starting with accepting my inheritance.'_ \- This part is modified from the opening of The Talented Mr. Ripley film.
> 
> _Neither said anything for a minute. ... 'I suppose the Elves will take care of it after that.'_ \- These two parts are almost word to word from the novel, altered to fit Lord of the Rings, of course.
> 
> _'"See Lothlorien and die," ... force his mind to forget it, for now._ \- The line from the film is 'See Rome and die. Or was it Venice? You do something and die, don't you?' and it was in an entirely different context. Another reference in this sequence is to the book, in the part where Frodo looks at his and Sam's feet and thinks about how similar they look.
> 
> _Indis hary' anta. ... This is Sam's face._ \- There's a scene in the movie where Ripley watches Dickie and Marge while learning his Italian. He repeats these phrases (except with "the fiancée is Marge" and "this is Dickie's face", of course, and in Italian, not Quenya).
> 
> _'Are you sure you don't mind us staying ... 'Come inside.'_ \- Several lines here are altered dialogue from the film. The song Frodo sings is altered with great pains from 'Stabat Mater' (proving just what a geek I am), a haunting hymn that is sung by a church choir in one scene. Gilraen translated my altered lyrics into Quenya, which I then arranged so they could be sung to the tune of Stabat Mater.
> 
> _The day had turned into evening outside. ... vulnerable S's, firmly on the line._ \- A scene altered from the film.
> 
> _'Now you'll find out why Ms. Cotton shows up for breakfast ... through the little backdoor, into the chill outside._ \- Again, many lines are altered from the film. Dickie had a ring given to him by Marge, but I thought that, even aside from the bad ring connection, it would be strange for a gardener to wear a ring.
> 
> _Frodo wasn't sure why he started collecting them. ... and he wouldn't hurt._ \- All me, and probably redundant.
> 
> _Frodo paced his study. ... Outside of time._ \- All me, but there were similar scenes of small rejection scattered about the book and the film. Also, in the movie there was a bath scene in which Ripley's desire for Dickie was made evident, but it was quite different.
> 
> _Sam had sent a letter ahead, ... Frodo knew exactly what she meant._ \- Bits of dialogue and the swimming here are directly or almost directly from the movie. The introduction of "Freddie" - somehow it seemed more natural that Fredegar would appeal to Frodo's jealousy over Rosie more than his jealousy over Sam... That's one of the big changes I made here, because in both the film and the book Ripley loathed Marge.
> 
> _Now Frodo stopped. ... completely in harmony and alike._ \- This is almost word to word from the book. It's a pivotal moment, and I wrote it down when I read the book. See, I don't actually own the book, so all the Highsmith book -based bits are done by memory, except for the very first bits with Gandalf, which I found on the net, and this bit.
> 
> _"To the Shire, and the happiest days of my life!" ... "Shut up!" Frodo screamed._ \- A lot of the dialogue here is patterned after the movie.


End file.
